


Intuition

by AlasPoorYorcake



Series: Sandbox [1]
Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series), markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Promptfic, basically yyyyyikes, fourth-dimension-superimposition and sadness, good luck making sense out of this one, no ships come to fruition except if they're canon, ptsd warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-03-20 22:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13727328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlasPoorYorcake/pseuds/AlasPoorYorcake
Summary: Prompt: "He knows."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "He knows." Angst.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything in relation to Mark Fischbach.

* * *

Damien hated the pills.

It hadn’t been the first thing he protested to, and it wasn’t the last. But of all the adjustments he had to make to his daily life, the pills were the most important. And therefore Damien hated them the most.

“Just take the damn pills,” Mark tossed over his shoulder from his pilfering of the fridge for the orange juice. 

Flanking him, Celine steadied a hand on her husband’s back and picked out the coffee creamer, passing it to Damien, who thanked her quietly and stared blankly at the coffee maker.

William bustled into the kitchen in his pajamas with a tremendous yawn. He took a seat at the table and stretched. “Ah, leave the kid alone. He’s got a lot on his plate.”

“I’m fine,” Damien groaned, glaring into his empty mug. “I don’t need to be coddled.”

“Will would be far from the first person to start coddling you, Damien,” Celine rolled her eyes, leaning in front of Damien and turning the coffee maker on. She gestured to it pointedly. 

The mayor scowled. “What?”

His sister gave him a scathing look. “You’ve been waiting for the coffee ten minutes and you hadn’t even noticed it was off. Will’s right, you’re not at your best.”

“Dames didn’t get much sleep last night,” William smirked, apparently taking pleasure in outing his friend.

Mark’s orange juice, which he had just taken a swig of, exploded through his nose. His subsequent laughter sounded nasal and wet.

“Shut up, Mark, you know that’s not what he meant,” Celine thwacked Mark over the head with a rag, which she then handed to him to wipe his face and the counter. 

She turned to William with her arms crossed. “What was it, nightmares?”

“Insomnia, actually. No need for concern, though-- I kept him company.”

“Sounds like you did more than that,” Mark huffed, still dabbing at his nose. “What’d you two do, cuddle and share war stories?”

He retreated to the breakfast table before Celine could hit him again, and sat at one of the heads of the table. “My deepest condolences, Dames, whatever it was couldn’t have helped your mental state.”

“I thought I told you to shut up,” Celine growled from the counter, rounding up four plates with matching utensils and toting the set to the table, where she glared at her husband.

She passed Damien on the way back, his steaming coffee mug in one hand, hooked cane in the other. She sighed. “You forgot your meds. Again. No, just go, I’ll get them.”

The other man limped guiltily to the breakfast table and leaned his cane against it, taking the seat across from the colonel and leaving the other head of the table for Celine. 

It was her table, after all. He was only staying for as long as it took to recover.

Things had all come together desperately. Once Damien left the hospital, Celine insisted on having someone with him to take care of him. Then after one night in the mansion, Mark approached William with a suspicion that was confirmed at the nearest psychiatrist office. 

PTSD, they diagnosed, though Damien denied it with every bone in his body.

That night, Mark and Celine set up Damien’s things in the mansion, where he would stay until he could at least walk without a cane. They were in the middle of renovating, however, and had only moved back into the house three days ago. So Damien stayed in the only other bed than Mark and Celine’s-- William’s. 

William, who was staying to work under Mark, and who insisted they could make the entire thing into an extended sleepover party. Unfortunately, this meant William had a front-row ticket to nightmares, insomnia, and whatever else plagued Damien in the nighttime.

The mayor almost wished he had anyone else-- William was a war vet. He knew exactly what the words in Damien’s sleep meant, knew why Damien always kept his cane by the bedside table, knew why sometimes Damien would put his head on Will’s chest when he thought he was asleep to just  _ listen _ .

While the mayor lost himself in thought, Mark and William managed to have their own spat about how Monopoly was a better pastime than Clue, which was still a stake above Scrabble.

“We’ve got furniture to move in and boxes to unpack, and they manage to find time to argue about board games.” Celine shook her head, the pill bottles in her hands rattling as she set them down on the table in front of Damien. 

She returned to the kitchen to retrieve the food. “So, I’ve been thinking we should hire a cook. Mark’s become increasingly busy, and you know I never liked it all that much. What do you think, Dames?”

“Knowing Mark, if you hire a cook, a butler won’t be far behind. Do you really think you could adapt to such an extravagant lifestyle?” Damien finally cracked a smile, hiding it behind a sip of creamer-heavy caffeine.

Celine’s smile was considerably brighter as she placed plates of food in front of each of the table’s occupants, then took her own seat. “Well, I don’t see why not. After all, I practically had a servant in you when we were young, didn’t I?”

Damien’s smile was just this side of coy. “I like to see it as an ‘educational opportunity’. Who knows where I’d be now if I didn’t apply your penchant for manipulation to politics?”

“You flatter me.” His sister covered her heart in a dramatic gesture, pulling the bemused attention of all the men at the table.

Then she jabbed a finger at the medication bottles with her elbow on the table, rattling it. “Now take your damn pills.”

“There’s the Celine I know,” William chortled, pulling his breakfast plate closer and beaming at it. “Oh, bully! Pancake and sausage with extra sausage-- and it smells wonderful as always, Celine!”

Mark grinned, snatching up his own utensils. “Of course, highest compliments to the chef-ress!”

“Thanks, Celine,” Damien smiled at her gently.

“You know you don’t have to thank me,” Celine brushed it off and turned to her food, but there was a subtle clench in her jaw as she sliced at her sausage. Damien breathed a small sigh and started his own meal.

“There’s still some furniture we have to buy to fill the main rooms,” Celine mentioned around a forkful of pancake. “William and I can look at some of the selections in town. Mark, I’d like you to take Damien and start unpacking the things we already brought over.”

Mark opened his mouth in protest. Damien cut him off with a severe look, yet his subsequent look to Celine was completely innocent.

“That sounds like a great idea, Celine. But Mark might want to go too. To see the furniture that’ll be in  _ his _ house.”

Celine immediately pinned him with a look of her own. “I’m certain Mark and I have similar enough tastes for me to look for the both of us.”

“I think what Dames is trying to say is that  _ William _ doesn’t share our taste. And he’s a serious impulse buyer,” Mark chuckled, wiping his face with a napkin.

Celine unleashed her glare at her brother, who reciprocated the sentiment, albeit with a smaller effect. “No, Damien is trying to make a point that he can handle being by himself. It’s too soon. I’m not risking an accident.” 

“What’s he gonna to do, knock himself out walking into a wall?” Mark snorted, then caught Celine’s expression and quickly stuffed a sausage in his mouth.

Damien scoffed, glancing down at his fidgeting hands. They twitched toward his cane, but he clenched them in his lap. Finally, he murmured, “We’re not teenagers anymore, Celine. I can take care of myself.”

Celine gripped her fork a little too hard. “Well, according to William--”

“I think it’ll do some good to leave Dames to his own devices for a while,” William finally interjected, adding, “Besides, unpacking the boxes will give him a good enough distraction if he goes all  _ mental _ . Right, Dames?”

Mark spoke before Celine or Damien could open their mouths. “We should leave right after breakfast, then. I have callbacks in the afternoon I can’t miss, and I’ll need an hour before to prepare.”

“Then it’s settled.” Damien beamed at his friends, then gave his sister a pointed look and reached for his cane.

He stood from his seat. “You all have fun roaming the labyrinth of IKEA. I’m going to get a head start on those boxes.”

“Sit. Down.” Celine pinned him with her sharp gaze, continuing, “You’ve barely eaten.”

Damien went still, caught between sitting and moving away. The siblings’ gazes locked. Slowly, an unnatural tension developed around the table, heads swiveling back and forth to see who would hold out the longest. Thankfully, William stepped in just before they snapped.

“Don’t push the man, Celine--”

“No, it’s alright.” Damien sank back into his seat, shooting the colonel a placating glance. 

He gave Celine a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “She’s right. If I don’t eat enough after my meds, I’ll get sick later.”

William almost mentioned that eating anything after his meds  _ would _ make him sick, but Mark’s shoe nudged his foot under the table, and the colonel shut his mouth with an audible click.

Mark forced a chuckle, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Well, since we’re all here a little longer-- you’re never going to guess what happened at auditions yesterday… ”

Damien listened placidly for a few minutes, pushing his food around his plate idly. It got harder and harder to pay attention as his mind kept wandering from reality. He was so exhausted from the night before, and his lethargy hadn’t done anything to spur his appetite.

The mayor sighed, retreating from his food and fingering his cane under the table. All eyes around the table were enraptured with Mark’s extravagant story, and Damien felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. These people-- his friends,  _ family _ \-- cared about him, offered him their help, their home. Yet he kept trying to push them away.

Just-- something about seeing them so worried and so readily accommodating… it made his skin itch. Recently, there were moments where he felt like he didn’t belong in his own body anymore. Where the building’s walls and ceiling began to slowly close in on him. And the damned ringing in his ears didn’t help.

So lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice when his friends began cleaning the table around him. Then Will reached over Damien’s shoulder to pick up his plate. 

“I’ve got this, old friend,” the colonel boomed, his face directly beside Damien’s. His hand landed on the mayor’s shoulder for stability.

Damien instinctively jerked back, his cane clattering noisily to the floor between his shaking fingers. Both he and William bent to retrieve it, the latter pushing the mayor back into his seat.

_ “Listen to old Warfie-- ‘cause Wilford knows what’s best!” _

Damien sucked his breath through his teeth, practically shooting out of his chair and landing on his back on the hardwood floor.

Half-dazed, the colonel stepped forward to help, but Damien skittered backwards on his hands until he felt himself hit a wall. 

That was the scene Mark and Celine found when they returned from the kitchen. 

The plate in Mark’s hands slipped and shattered on the floor. In an instant he rushed to Damien’s side, trying to tear the mayor’s gaze from the colonel.

“I… I’m sorry, Dames,” William said distantly, still staring at Damien’s trembling form. He suddenly flushed red with shame, shaking his head. “I wasn’t paying attention, should’ve known--”

“What happened?” Mark snarled at the colonel, his tone finally drawing Damien’s gaze.

Mark was glaring at the colonel furiously, looking ready for an attack. No one spoke. He repeated, “What. Happened?”

Damien swallowed down at his shoes and muttered, “Mark, it’s okay. I was just… thinking, and he touched my shoulder. I’m fine.”

At that, Mark deflated a bit. The colonel looked even more guilty. He took another step forward, and seemed relieved that Damien didn’t make any defensive move.

“I’m sorry, old chap, it was my fault. I should’ve known--”

Celine moved forward and took his arm. “No, Will. It could’ve happened to any one of us.”

Damien huffed shakily, letting Mark help him to stand. His voice was slightly stronger as he said, “She’s right. It’s not your fault. I was too far in my own head. I didn’t anticipate it, is all.”

“That doesn’t make it your fault, either,” Celine quickly cut in.

Thankfully, Damien’s retort was cut off by Mark. “Yes, yes, it’s everybody’s fault that Damien had a moment. Let’s just put it behind us. We should get going now if we want to be back in time.”

“After that?” Celine snapped, “No way in hell. Damien’s not staying anywhere alone.”

William opened his mouth, about to add his own two cents. But then he caught the look on Damien’s face and froze. He swallowed thickly.

Then he forced a jovial smile. “Well, I say as long as Damien says he’s alright, we should start our escapade as soon as possible!”

Celine’s gaze lingered on Will, then cut to Mark. Damien smiled shakily and gave her a reassuring nod. She gave him a look, which he returned. She relented.

“Alright, fine. But you’d better call if something goes wrong. Let’s get going.”

After a bit more bustle and getting Will into suitable clothing, Damien waved all of them off at the door. He was about to shut it behind them when Will did a double-take on the porch. 

Everything from the way he stood screamed hesitation, and Damien held his breath. “…You’re alright.”

Damien knew he couldn’t help the buzzing feeling at his fingertips from growing. Instead he smiled thinly and said, “Of course. You know how it is.”

That appeared to satisfy the colonel. He let out a soft, “bully,” waved goodbye, and promised to return as soon as possible with furniture the likes of which Damien had never seen. Damien waved back, suppressing the urge to cocoon himself in his own arms.

After the door slammed shut, Damien put his back to the wood and shut his eyes. The void behind his eyes spun him in circles, like an ethereal merry-go-round. Slowly, he came back to himself, leaning on his cane.

Over in the main room, mountains of boxes stood along the walls and on shelves and cabinets. Damien eyed them with trepidation. The thought of rifling through things that weren’t his put a sour sediment in his stomach. Just looking at the boxes sent a ripple down his spine.

He didn’t even get close to them before he made a sudden decision. He wasn’t going to sit here and spill out boxes and sort house items and think about what had happened to him.

He was going out.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Celine was, unfortunately, prone to paranoid thoughts.

Part of her insisted she always had been. Another part knew it was because of her meddling with the dark arts. It gave one a certain sensitivity to things.

Now, roaming the endless single corridor of IKEA, there was an undeniable discomfort in the air, and she knew it wasn’t just the claustrophobia that came with being in a crowd.

“We should go back,” she said for the third time that hour.

Neither Mark nor William were listening; Mark was inspecting a gaudy sofa with unfortunate interest and William was eagle-spread on a king-sized ‘try-me!’ mattress.

Celine grunted in frustration, ready to tell both of her boys off. But then the odd feeling started spreading. Intensifying. Something in the back of her mind shifted, and the world blinked out of existence for a brief moment.

“ _Will_.”

Immediately, the colonel’s head snapped forward, and in a second he was off of the bed and at her side. Mark took notice soon after, and helped William as Celine’s knees buckled. They guided her over to an oak bench and sat her down, glancing at each other.

Celine was starting to lose feeling in her fingertips. Pins and needles stuck her skin, crawled up her hand, and left them numb.

Her throat tightened with fear and she muttered hoarsely, “It’s Damien.”

She didn’t know how Mark or Will would react to that-- her hearing suddenly clamped into silence. The world tilted and spun, twirling her in nauseating, three dimensional circles. The thing in the back of her head shifted again, trying to get her attention.

She looked down and grabbed William’s hand, then Mark’s. She took a deep breath, as if preparing to be submerged in water. Then she let down her mental barrier and let the thing take over her.

_The world morphed before her eyes in less than a second-- walls and furniture and people melted into a familiar park in town._

_She was at the front of a stage, projecting her voice to a microphone held by a podium. A speech, commonplace and comfortable. Where she belonged._

_Her crowd was large, and the weather was good for it. Below a bright, sunny day, a sea of people churned restlessly, looking to her for hope of re-establishing themselves. Reinventing themselves._

_As the mayor with different faces for the different company she kept, she felt an undeniable affection to the sentiment._

_The gunshot split the fabric of the air._

_The second shot tore through her torso, sending metal flames ricocheting under her skin. Her personnel, people she knew, people she helped, ran to her side, placated her with meaningless, silent words._

_She clamped her jaw shut, and one thought suddenly struck her mind like lightning:_

**_Mark._ **

_…No._

She was abruptly wrenched out of the vision and physically pushed forward. Her mind slowly surfaced, and she came to gasping for breath.

“-line! Celine, talk to me!” William was there, to her right. Keeping her on the bench. Freaking out. Repeating over and over, “Are you alright?”

She nodded, felt even more nauseous, then tried to blink away her disorientation. They weren’t inside anymore, but sat on a concrete bench just outside the building, facing the parking lot.

The weather-- _It was a bright, sunny day._ _The crowd_ \-- the crowd--

Celine pressed the heels of her palms over her eyes and tried to ignore the red-coloured flares behind her eyelids.

“We have to get to Damien, he… he’s having an episode,” she panted, pressing a hand against her heart, as if to make sure it was still beating. Make sure there weren’t any holes. Make sure she wasn’t--

“Then he’s not the only one,” William soothed her, folding her hand in between both of his. “Breathe, Celine.”

She did. Her heartbeat gradually slowed. Breathing suddenly came much easier. It was just the two of them, his warmth enveloping hers, protecting her…

His hands squeezed hers. “That’s it, just keep breathing. You’re doing great.”

Something moved to her left and Celine registered Mark to the left of her. All of a sudden William’s warmth turned stale.

Mark’s voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard. “Can you stand? We can pull the car up if you can’t.”

“No, I… I can walk. Damien’s at the park. We have to get to him before… we have to get to him.”

“Celine-- why don’t we stop to think about this, huh?” Mark asked as he and William helped her stand.

There was an uncomfortable expression on their faces. She would’ve scowled, but Damien was in trouble and they had to go _now_.

Mark wouldn’t let it go. “You’ve obviously had a bit of a moment. Let’s get to the car first, and then worry about what’s going on.”

“Damien’s in trouble,” Celine hissed, and both men froze with tight grips on her arms. “What part of that don’t you understand?”

Mark looked like he had something to say, but Will beat him to it. “I suppose we’re going to the park, then.”

Mark opened his mouth, then closed it again and sighed.

The drive to the park was tense, to say the least. Every moment, Celine’s anxiety ratcheted up several notches, and by the time they arrived in the parking lot, she had both hands on the door handle.

She leaped out before the car stopped, and didn’t wait for Mark or William before taking off to the middle of the park.

From a distance, she saw Damien curled into a ball against a large oak tree, crying silently to himself and staring into space. She quickened her pace.

“My god, Damien, you scared the hell out of us,” she breathed as soon as she was in earshot, bending over and panting with her hands on her knees.

Damien didn’t respond. Celine felt something beneath her skin chill to ice, and she moved in front of his unfocused gaze. “...Damien, can you hear me?”

Celine reached a hand towards her brother, then paused. Right. The incident that morning, Will putting a hand on his shoulder… contact wasn’t the solution here.

“What are you staring at?” She muttered, then kneeled beside him, turning and following his gaze. Something heavy settled in her stomach.

“Oh, Damien…”

Just across the park, bathed in bright daylight, was the stage, with a perfect view of the podium.

Celine glanced back at her brother, who gave no indication he even knew she was there. With a heavy sigh, she moved to sit beside him.

“They-- They say talking can sometimes help, y’know, with… god, what are we doing here?” Celine groaned, putting pressure on her temple as if to squeeze out the impulse to cry in frustration.

Finally, she leaned her head back against the tree trunk and sighed. “They cleaned the blood off the stage an hour after you were taken to the hospital. …When we got there, they said you weren’t lucky because the bullet had gone straight through. I said you weren’t lucky because that bastard hadn’t missed. Will threw a fit, too, demanding to see you-- he got halfway to the operating room before they managed to take him down. And Mark… ”

She opened her eyes, watched her brother’s hands shake, and felt helpless. “You have good friends, Damien. I hope you know that. Can… can you even hear me?”

“Celine!”

That was William, sprinting toward them with waving arms and looking like a complete buffoon-- albeit a relieved one. Mark was close behind, his expression pinched into something indecipherable as he approached.

Will stopped just before Celine, doubled over, and panted, “Oh, thank god, you’re both okay!”

Mark slowed his pace, but didn’t stop until he was at Damien’s feet. He didn’t acknowledge the Will or Celine, instead kneeling to the mayor’s eye-level and searching his face. He reached out a hand and laid it softly on Damien’s cheek, tilting his face closer.

“Hey, I’m here,” Mark murmured gently, swiping a tear away with his thumb. His face was surprisingly tender. “We’re all here. It’s alright. He’s gone.”

William and Celine watched the exchange as, several moments later, Damien lifted his face and found Mark’s gaze.

Then Damien blinked and came back to life. He jerked away from Mark’s touch and glanced at Celine and Will, horror dawning on his expression.

“I-- I didn’t-- you weren’t supposed to--” He clamped his mouth shut, his gaze darting side to side frantically. “We-- We’re in the park. …How did you find me?”

“Celine, she had a bit of a… a, uh… ” Will trailed off, turning to Celine for help.

She rolled her eyes, nudging her brother in the side and ignoring how her voice warbled with relief. “Just call it intuition. You’ve always been predictable, brother, what can I say?”

Will and Mark shared a cursory glance, while Damien gave his sister a long look. Then he looked to his shoes and whispered, “I’m sorry, I…”

“Yeah, alright, kisses and hugs all around, it’s not your fault you’re mental,” Mark shattered the moment, frowning at his friend. “Where’s your cane, crazy kid?”

“Uh… I don’t… ” Damien also began looking around, looking bemused. Then, with a swallow, he went still. He locked eyes with Mark and said, “Someone took it.”

“…Well, ‘someone’ better watch their back, ‘cause if they ever show their face, I’m gonna serve them a gigantic dish of whoop-ass,” Mark chuffed. Damien looked at him very carefully.

Visibly unnerved, Mark tsked. “Well, it’s just an old wooden cane, not worth anything to anyone. I bet it’s still around here somewhere. Help me look, Will.”

Mark and Will went off in a random direction, chattering. Damien watched them go, his fingers sliding on the fabric of his pants and aching for the familiar wood of his cane. For the hook at the top-- the creases down the center--

Celine shot Damien a look. “Did they take anything else?”

“I-I didn’t have anything else on me.” Damien suddenly looked nervous. Very nervous, as his eyes trailed Mark and Will around the park. “I walked here. …I-I was trying to get to my office. But I ended up here instead.”

Then Damien threw his head into his trembling hands. “God, what the hell was I thinking? I’m the goddamned _mayor_ , anyone could have seen me out here. What if-- ”

Celine cut him off with a hand on his shoulder, encouraged that he let it stay. “No one saw you, Damien. They’re not expecting to. You’ve still got a week of bedrest before--”

Damien growled, shoving his sister’s hand away. “I didn’t stumble out of the house in a daze, Celine. I _intentionally_ walked out trying to-- I don’t know, clear my head? I can’t even step outside without-- without losing my _goddamn_ _mind_ and ending up… ending up… god, right in the public eye.”

Celine’s response was cut off by William’s triumphant cry, followed by an angry one. Will held something up in the air to show Mark-- something slender and black and far too short--

Something in Damien’s throat constricted, and he brought his fluttering fingers to the buttons around his neck. He could feel his heartbeat quicken with Mark and Will’s pace as they quickly made it back to the tree, fuming the whole way.

“Asshole broke it in half and tossed it.” Mark had his hands by his side, practically shivering with anger.

William looked just as pissed. “If I ever see this asshat, I’ll make ‘em cherish the days they had hands to do something like this.”

He looked down at the pieces of the cane in his hands and nodded to Damien. “I’ll hold onto it for you. We can help you to the car ourselves.”

“It-- that won’t be necessary,” Damien was quick to reply. His collar was too tight, the air too sharp, his lungs too small. He needed to leave. Now. “I-- I think I can stand on my own.”

Mark noticed. “Great. Now that the gang’s back together-- I’ve only got an hour to prepare for callbacks. Let’s head home already.”

Will cheered, looking encouragingly down at Damien. “I second that! Why don’t Mark and I bring the car around? That way you won’t have to walk as far, Dames!”

The others nodded in relief. Damien swallowed, his voice flat as he replied, “Yeah. Thanks, Will.”

“Bully! Last one to the car’s a furry caterpillar!” Grabbing Mark’s wrist, Will winked at Damien, and pulled Mark across the park in the direction of the car.

* * *

A few paces into their impromptu run, Mark managed to yank his hand away from William. He slowed his pace to a stop and bent double to pant. The world blurred around him, and he gasped for breath, hands on his knees.

William slowed as well, though he was breathing completely normally. “You sure are out of shape for an actor, Mark. I thought you guys did all that flippity-floppity choreography all the time?”

“I’m a  _ film _ actor, not a broadway one.” Mark glared daggers at his friend, forcing his legs to move again. 

He wanted to get to the car as fast as possible-- and not just for Damien’s sake. Unfortunately, Will immediately matched his pace with a smile.

“Well, maybe you should consider changing course.” Will’s chuckle was oddly subdued, which meant… of course. He wanted a  _ moment _ .

Mark brought a hand to his face and scrubbed down, sighing. “You can drive the car by yourself, Will. Why did you drag me along?”

The colonel didn’t respond, just trotted beside Mark like an oddly solemn puppy. The mood took a sharp turn, and Mark felt the urge to start running again. Finally, Will stopped walking, and Mark reluctantly followed suit.

“Back there, when Damien was staring, caught in…” he spoke, his voice small, “You pulled him out of it like it was nothing. How did you… ”

Mark’s gaze lingered on William’s distraught expression, then gravitated to the sky. “I’ve done it before.”

“…Right. I’d thought you had.” Slowly, a pained smile grew on William’s face, and Mark felt his heart sink. “It’s good that he has someone to… to take care of him. In the way I can’t.”

“You do a good job,” Mark encouraged weakly. 

In truth, he didn’t really know one way or the other what Will did for Damien, but the mayor hadn’t quite turned into a blubbering vegetable yet, so it had to be something.

Will’s wistful smile drained nonetheless. “No. I can’t help him. We’re too different. We  _ deal _ with things differently. I look at him, sometimes, and feel so… helpless. I’ve been where he is. I should know what’s going on in his head. But I don’t.”

Mark winced, glanced back at the car, then resigned himself to the fact they were having a moment and he’d just have to get it over with. He sought out Will’s gaze and sighed.

“Look, just because you’re stoic and he’s… spazzy, it doesn’t mean you can’t help him. It’s a different kind of help. It’s the… the normalcy, y’know? You’re normal, for him.”

The colonel blinked, and Mark almost thought he saw something shift in his eyes. “Ah. Normalcy is… important in this sort of thing. Yes.”

“Sure,” Mark encouraged, willing to hold onto his own wimpy olive branch for dear life. “…I wouldn’t doubt if it helps for him to know that there are different ways to feel. And that whatever he’s feeling isn’t wrong or anything.”

Will smiled softly at Mark, though it looked more like the sort of smile you give someone who bought you a mug for your birthday. The sentiment was appreciated, but… 

But the colonel certainly wouldn’t say that. “Of course. I don’t suppose that means he’d agree to going hunting with me, though, does it?”

“Uh. No, probably not.”

Thankfully, William seemed at least a bit cheered up. He beamed falsely at Mark and clapped a hand on his shoulder, booming, “Well, then, what say we get this show on the road and get our good friend home, eh? Bully!”

And without further ado, he took off in the direction of the car, leaving Mark to stare dizzily after him.

* * *

Mark and Will’s retreating forms left Celine and Damien to recuperate.

Slowly and patiently, they were able to get Damien on his feet again. His back cracked as he came up, but he didn’t need anything to support him. At least, not in standing, but once they got him up--

“No-- I’m gonna puke,” he suddenly said, turning sickly pale.

A moment later, Celine only just managed to get out of the way as Damien’s breakfast returned with a vengeance, bending him forward to retch.

Damien was panting by the end of it, every part of him trembling as he retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. With a grimace, Celine moved to rub her brother’s back in slow, soothing circles. But then Damien’s knees gave out and he fell to the ground, coughing and dry heaving.

When he finished, he collapsed back onto the grass and laid there, panting. A moment later, he groaned loudly, turned over in the grass, and clamped his hands against his ears, letting out a soft, “Fuck, that hurts.”

“You’re worse. Much worse,” Celine said, when Damien finally took his hands from his ears and rolled onto his back again.

Damien breathed softly, closing his eyes against the bright blue sky and raising a forearm to blot out the blue amoebas behind his eyelids. “Meds. Make it worse.”

“Don’t say that. You haven’t had time for them to work. Besides, they’re to  _ treat _ a condition, not cure it.” Celine kneeled next to him and offered him a hand up.

Damien took her hand, looking exhausted. “A condition I don’t have,” 

“A condition you  _ do  _ have, and that’s final,” Celine said through clenched teeth, and yanked him off the ground.

Damien’s hands fumbled, desperately clinging to Celine’s shoulders as he stumbled all of his weight onto her. After a moment of breathing, he sighed, “I know what PTSD looks like, we all do. And that’s not what this is.”

“You are so-- so--” Celine growled unintelligibly, her steadying grip on Damien’s arm tightening painfully. She shook him, exploding, “so goddamn _ naive! _ ”

Damien didn’t respond, too shocked at her outburst to react. His grip went slack, and Celine balanced him unsteadily.

Her anger soon diffused into desperation. “For god’s sake, just get a  _ grip _ ! Just--  _ please _ , Damien, get a grip. This, all of this, it isn’t you. We’re trying to help you.”

“That’s the problem!” Damien hissed, shattering the chains on his tongue and the dam behind his eyes, “All of you, trying so hard to  _ help _ me, I-- can’t you see how it kills me, watching you mother-hen over me, so-- so afraid of returning to normal because I might not be able to handle it, and-- and me  _ not handling it _ , I… god, sometimes I feel like an overused doll, boneless and a-- a big, useless distraction, stuffing showing and stitches coming undone… I’m sorry, Celine, I know, I… I’m just so tired. Tired of it all, so goddamn…”

Damien faltered, then collapsed, Celine taking the brunt of his weight as he buried his face in her shoulder. His shoulders rose and fell with his sobs, and Celine slowly raised a hand to dig small circles into his back.

After a moment, she whispered, “That… all of that. That doesn’t mean you can just give up.”

Damien fell silent, his breaths sharp and staggered. Then, quietly, he spoke into her shawl, “I know.”

“…Just because Will’s PTSD is  _ different _ doesn’t mean yours doesn’t exist. It’s not a competition.”

For a moment, she thought she had completely lost him, but then her shawl shifted back and forth. A nod. She breathed a timid sigh of relief.

It was then that the car rolled up on the sidewalk a few paces away, the crunch of pavement barely audible over Damien’s heavy breathing. Celine watched Mark open the side door from over Damien’s shoulder, and sent her husband a quiet ‘wait’ gesture. He nodded, left the door open, and turned to talk to Will in the driver’s seat.

Celine gave her brother a small squeeze, indicating that their ride arrived, but that he should take his time. 

Damien nodded slowly again, and shifted his chin onto her shoulder. Then an icy feeling crept up his spine and he involuntarily wrenched his eyes open.

There, past Celine’s shoulder, onstage and standing just behind the podium, stood a tall figure in a black three piece suit, staring back at him.

Damien desperately willed himself to glue his eyes open and repressed a shiver. A terrifying and tense minute later, he blinked, and the figure disappeared. He swallowed against his sister’s shoulder and relaxed his grip around her.

Celine peeled off her brother and led him slowly to the car. She took the middle seat. He limped into the backseat, clenching the broken remains of his cane tightly in his fists.

He didn’t take his eyes off of his cane through the ride back to the mansion.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Damien woke up alone, a keening whine scratching his throat.

He spent a few minutes in the fog between sleep and wakefulness before his senses came back to him. The first thing he felt was confusion. The spot beside him was empty, the blanket tossed to the side. There was no warmth, no obnoxious snore, no gentle, knowing look.

It took Damien a moment to realize that the hollow feeling carved in his chest was loneliness. He had spent so many nights with the colonel by his side… 

Where was he?

Getting out of bed was a bit of an ordeal, but scrapping his shirt for another less sweaty one made him feel a little bit better. Enough to get him out the door and to the kitchen, where he lazily flipped the lightswitch.

The light in the kitchen was almost terrifying. Low and yellow and faded, like burnt parchment, making the whole room seem like something out of a horror movie. It distorted the room, made its corners unfamiliar. Damien barely made it to the fridge when he heard it.

Scratching. Small and skittish patters, like mice feet.

He leaned to his left, peering around the corner of the living room threshold. “Hello?” he called, then immediately berated himself for being stupid. But the scratching was still there, coming from the other side of the house.

He followed it as best he could, backtracking when it disappeared, gaining speed as it got louder. By the time he had made it to the second floor master bedroom-- Mark and Celine’s room-- it stopped altogether.

“Is anyone there?” Damien called quietly; he didn’t want to wake Mark or his sister, especially after what had happened that afternoon. “Will?”

_ “…This is an opportunity that can’t be missed!” _

Damien froze. That voice. He had heard that voice before. His head turned to the side in slow motion. There was a light peeking through the bottom of the door of the bedroom at the end of the hall.

Damien blinked, and suddenly felt incredibly light-headed. In less than a second, he felt weightless, as if floating in a dream. The world faded and molded before his eyes, the air turning a sickly green and specks of ash flaking from the walls to drift lazily in the air. Dazed and panicked, Damien started toward the only sound of reality he recognized-- the voices coming from that room.

_ “…In any case, we all know there’s been a drop in views recently--” _

_ “--ok, I’m willing to cut 60%. Alright, alright, 70%, last offer--” _

_ “--affecting our charging stations, resulting in a 25% system efficiency loss…” _

The doorknob was right under his fingertips. It was cold, too cold for a warm summer night, cold and grey and monochrome. He opened the door, and his vision exploded into white.

_ “Shit, what the hell happened--” _

_ “--ain’t never done that before, speak to ‘im or somethin’--” _

_ “--Dark?”  _ There was that voice again, that achingly familiar voice.  _ “Dark, open your eyes. Dark!” _

He did. It was an office conference room, glass windows and an expansive, wooden table. A congregation of people sat in each chair, each one more odd than the last. A doctor’s coat, a business tie, a bloody blindfold, a cowboy hat, unnaturally white skin, mechanical eyes--

_ “There you are!” _

And… and… 

“…Will?”

_ “Hey, welcome back to the meeting, spacie-outie man! Gosh, I’ve never seen you lose control like that before-- I’ve been tellin’ you, you need a break, Darkie-dear! …Dark? You hearin’ me?” _

No. No, that’s… that wasn’t William. He was too bright, too pink, too-- too much-- Not-William.

_ “Who’s William?” _ Not-William was frowning, and a spike of fear chilled his dead skin.  _ “Dark? Hey, Dark!” _

“Stay away from me!”

The door slammed shut with a loud bang, and Damien stumbled backwards. He stared at it for several moments, trying to focus on his erratic breathing and slow his heartbeat and make sense of what the hell had just happened.

But the world didn’t return to normal. everything was still out of color and grey and green and his hands were pale, too pale, almost blue, and there was that same damned ringing between his ears and  _ what was happening to him-- _

“Damien!” Celine exclaimed, surprised, and the world glitched. He was--  _ are you _ \-- in the living room--  _ conference room _ \-- on the first floor. 

So were William and Celine. On the couch. On top of each other. 

“It’s not what it looks like!”

Damien blinked away the ash in his eyes and felt himself begin to shake.

“You--” He started, but couldn’t finish. He stared at William and felt his breath hitch. Real William, not Not-William, but the real, kind, colonel William… 

“Damien, old chap, we… ” 

Oh. They must have been mistaking his shaking for anger. …Was he angry? He wasn’t sure what he felt. He wasn’t sure if he felt anything. The world wasn’t grey anymore. 

“-mien? Are you alright?”

“I-I can’t--” He stared down at his hands, his pale but not-grey hands, and suddenly wanted to grab his cane, to cradle it, to break it. Then he collapsed. Celine barely got to him in time to soften his fall, but Damien couldn’t stop looking at his hands. 

_ Just say it, just say it, just-- _ “I… I’m having an episode.”

“You… I’m sorry, Damien, this--

_ “This is real,” _ said the man with the pink hair and pink moustache and William’s soft face but crazed eyes, and Damien whimpered.

“Stop, just stop, please, I don’t want to do this, I can’t do this anymore,” Damien sobbed, but no tears came. He felt Celine’s arms wrap around him gently, and he fell lax in her grip. “Just help, please, help me.”

Celine did not respond for a long time, just cradled her brother and offered him her shoulder. Eventually, she looked up at William and said evenly, “Get him into the kitchen.”

They didn’t try to help him stand, which was fortunate. He felt himself being lifted gently, and for a moment he felt truly afraid, afraid of the weightlessness and the ashes and the hands that were too familiar. 

But then-- this was William. Tall, imposing, soft-hearted William, who laughed like a boulder and swore like a sailor and smelled like the ocean and Damien’s favorite shampoo and who held him at night and who he…

“I’m sorry, Will,” Damien’s voice cracked, and tears pooled in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

William didn’t say anything for a moment, just slowly carried Damien through the house. Then, abruptly, he whispered, “What could  _ you _ possibly be sorry about, Damien?”

“Scared,” was all Damien could manage. He didn’t even have energy to swipe at his eyes anymore, letting himself fall limp in the colonel’s arms. “I shouldn’t have been scared of you.”

William stopped walking, and Damien jolted in his grip. “You… you were scared of me?” He glanced back at Celine, who was lagging behind with a steely expression.

William took a deep breath and muttered, “No troubles, Dames. It’s alright.” He began walking again, trying not to press his friend to his chest as he wanted to.

Once they arrived at the kitchen, Will set Damien down at the head of the table and pulled up a chair next to him, letting the mayor lean his head into his lap. Meanwhile, Celine headed straight for the water heater, grabbing a cup and sugar and a tea bag along with several other ingredients.

After a minute of the clinking, William began carding a hand through Damien’s hair. The colonel’s eyebrows pulled together slowly, and he put a calloused palm over Damien’s forehead.

“He has a fever. You don’t think he…” 

He looked up at Celine with trepidation, looking more nervous than Celine had ever seen him. She didn’t respond, so William continued petting Damien. After a few moments, he couldn’t stand the silence.

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly, mindful of the opportunity for Damien to sleep, even if it was practically guaranteed he wouldn’t.

“He thinks tonight was an episode-induced hallucination,” Celine spoke at last, her tone terrifyingly detached. “I’m making sure it stays that way.”

William froze, as did his hand, and Damien squirmed briefly in his grip at the loss of contact. “…You want to drug him?”

“I  _ am _ drugging him,” Celine corrected, pouring something from an odd shaped vial into the now-steaming mug and moving to the table. “Now get him up.”

William didn’t move. He simply stared up at Celine in some foreign combination of shock or betrayal or revulsion, or all of the above. Celine growled in frustration.

“William. Get him up now or I’ll pour it down his throat.”

“No,” William protested, holding Damien tightly in his arms, confident in his righteousness. “I’m not letting you _drug_ _your_ _brother_ in the middle of an episode!”

Celine brimmed with fury, clenching the mug hard enough to turn her knuckles white. “ _ William-- _ ”

“Celine, shut up!” William snarled, seething. “You’re not thinking straight! He  _ saw _ us! We can’t run from this-- we have to tell him the truth!”

Celine paused and took a deep breath, glaring at her lover. Then, almost too abruptly, her expression melted into one of desperation. “He  _ can’t _ know, William. He’s my brother, I know him. He’ll tell Mark.”

“Then… then maybe it’s time Mark knew,” Will murmured, looking down at the mayor. Celine remained silent, and they both took in this declaration together.

William looked plaintively back at Celine, but to no avail. Her mind was already made up. So he sighed. “…Look, from experience… there’s a chance he won’t remember anything when we wakes up.”

Celine moved to argue, then stopped herself. “You mean he doesn’t remember his episodes?”

“…Not the nightly ones, no,” Will finally muttered, glancing away.

Celine exhaled slowly, folding her arms, testing her own resolve. Then she spoke. “How big is that chance?”

William shot her a glare. “Big,” he said coldly, then placed a hand on Damien’s chest and waited. It was a testament to how many nights they had slept together that he knew: “He’s close to falling asleep already. Five minutes, guaranteed.”

The cup landed on the table with a quiet click. Celine placed a hand over her eyes, made her decision, and sighed. “Where do we put him, then?”

Damien then began to stir, and William smiled shakily down at his friend. “Hey, Dames. Don’t panic, you’re alright. We’re in the kitchen.”

The mayor nodded blearily, looked at Will and Celine, then blinked at the cup on the table, licking his lips.

“Mark,” he murmured, and Will and Celine stiffened. They shared a glance.

“Damien, you-- what you saw tonight, you can’t--” Will began softly, but Damien shook his head.

“Mark,” he insisted sleepily. “Episodes.”

“Fantastic,” Celine muttered, turning away with fingers squeezing her temples. “His old monosyllabic puzzles. My favorite.”

“Celine,” William reprimanded, then looked down at Damien, trying to figure out what he meant. “What about Mark, Dames? And your… oh.  _ Oh _ . Mark helps you with your episodes?”

Damien nodded as frantically as he could with what little energy he had. Celine blinked, as if suddenly realizing something.

“That explains how he brought you out of your thing at the park,” she said, then chuffed. “I suppose that makes me the only one you haven’t confided in. Love you too, brother.”

Damien didn’t respond. One shaking hand came up and grabbed Will’s shirt in a frail grip. “Please,” he moaned quietly.

William’s conflicted expression almost immediately melted. “Alright,” he said, and moved to pick Damien up again. “Hold on tight, Dames.”

“William.” Celine stepped forward, her temper flashing to the surface. “You can’t honestly expect him not to--”

“He’s my friend, Celine. He’s  _ your _ brother.” William turned away from her. “I don’t care what he says. I’m getting him what he needs.”

“And what about what  _ we _ need?” Celine called to him desperately. The colonel didn’t even pause. He simply walked out of the room and began ascending the staircase. Celine stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and he at the top.

“I’ll meet you in my room in a few minutes, Celine. I won’t stay long.”

Celine opened her mouth once again to argue, but caught herself before she could. Her mouth tightened into a fine line, and she stormed off to William’s room with a determined expression.

Meanwhile, the colonel shifted Damien in his grip, slowing his walking pace at the man’s weight. The mayor was almost still when Will prompted, “Damien?”

Damien gave a noncommittal grunt, nuzzling into the crook of Will’s arm. William took that as a gesture to continue. “…Is that my shirt?”

Damien stiffened in his grip. If not for the low lighting, Will could’ve said with certainty there was a blush creeping up the mayor’s neck.

“D’dn’t notice,” Damien mumbled.

“It’s three sizes too big,” William pointed out, to which he got a small shrug.

“C’mfy. Smells like you,” Damien yawned widely. “Nice shampoo.”

“…Mark picked it out for me. He told me it was your favorite,” Will murmured, looking down at the oddly peaceful expression on his friend’s usually stressed face. “Damien, did-- did you ever consider us to be…”

He trailed off. Eventually, Damien lifted his head, looking completely out of it, and the colonel felt a sharp spike of guilt in his chest. “What?”

“Nothing, old friend,” William whispered, swallowing harshly several times. “It’s nothing. Go to sleep.”

“No,” Damien protested, though his eyes were closed and he was falling lax. “Have to tell Mark.”

“Tell him,” Will echoed, forcing his sudden panic and wild nerves and resigned dread to calm. “Tell him what?”

“Can’t. Secret.”

“What’s a secret, Damien?” Will coaxed gently. At this point, they were standing just outside of Mark’s doorway. “We’re friends, right, Dames? What’re you gonna tell him?”

“I…” Damien blinked his eyes open, and suddenly looked the most lucid he had all night. “I’m sorry, Will.”

William sighed, offering him a pained smile. “It’s alright, Dames. Tell him what you need to. I’ll be in my--  _ our _ room, if you need me.” He opened the door to Mark’s bedroom and paused before walking in. He didn’t want to go in, to leave Damien in there. But he had to.

He walked in and laid Damien down on the side of the bed usually occupied by Celine. “…Good night, Damien.”

Damien didn’t respond. He simply stared up at the ceiling, unblinking. From Will’s angle, he almost looked like a corpse on display in a coffin, just before it was lowered to the earth.

The colonel left as quickly as possible, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

“Mmmf,” Mark shuffled in bed not a moment later, tugging at the cover, which appeared to be stuck under something. He sat up in frustration, huffing, “Celine? What are you doing?”

Getting no response, he fiddled with the lamp beside his bed, and finally found the switch, bathing the entire room in a soft, pale glow.

“…Damien?” Mark squinted, blinking away the spots in his vision and frowning. “Where’s Celine?”

Still nothing. Mark rolled to face his clammy, pale friend, and haphazardly put a hand on his forehead. 

“You have a fever,” he confirmed, carefully watching the mayor’s reaction. “…Damien, you’re freaking me out. What’s going on?”

Slowly, Damien turned his face to Mark, his eyes glassy and distant.

“It’s started,” he sobbed.

Then, suddenly, he was gone.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After spending a long time thinking about this weird project I kind of abandoned for a while... I came to a sort of epiphany-- best described with a quote from my theatre director: "So, uh, we've all been gone for a while, but I have a surprise for you. ...Concept change! Surprise!"
> 
> So, in case anyone's interested, the first three chapters have been revised and edited for SMALL THINGS, not really necessary for the plot but definitely little charms like foreshadowing, irony, and the works, just to settle the idea in. Feel free to go back and re-read, if you're interested!
> 
> And without further ado... the "things (finally) start to pick up" chapter!

* * *

He knows.

He  _ knows? _

“What the hell is that supposed to mean,  _ he knows _ ?” Celine stopped pacing in front of the couch, facing her husband with clenched fists. 

They were all gathered in the living room. It was still early enough in the day for light to peek over the windowsills. 

Mark sat in an old armchair facing the fire, fingers steepled together in thought. William was sitting on the couch, head in his hands and eyes blankly staring at the floor. 

Damien, having disappeared in the nighttime, was still missing.

“It means exactly what it sounds like, Celine.” Mark wasn’t quite shouting, but his voice strained like he was. “Damien knew this was going to happen.”

“Knew that he was going to run away, disappear!” Celine laughed hollowly, bordering on hysterical. “Of course, how could we not have forseen! It’s not as if people  _ run for a reason! _ ”

Mark’s expression twitched oddly. “What are you implying?”

Celine stomped in front of the fireplace, displacing Mark’s distant glare to her. “Damien confided in you, maybe even more than William.  _ Maybe _ you didn’t do a very good job of handling it!”

“Maybe I didn’t!” Mark snarled up at her, his hands flying to the arms of his chair and gripping them like claws. “Maybe there’s also a reason he never confided in you in the first place!”

“Stop it, both of you.” The colonel’s voice was hoarse, but it silenced them as if it was a yell. “Damien is not the type to run from his problems.”

Celine deflated with a groan, covering her eyes with a hand. “No, he’s the type to stall until he finds an efficient solution. All I’m trying to suggest is that he  _ found _ his solution and took off after it.”

“If you would listen to me for a moment, I could tell you that’s not true.” Mark refuted, but all energy had drained from him, and he fell back onto his chair with a sigh.

A few terse moments of crackling fire and unsaid accusations passed, and William spoke up again, “What’s really happened to Damien?”

The colonel’s concern soon overpowered the room, bleeding into Celine and Mark’s gazes. Mark closed his eyes against the light and took a deep breath.

“It started when we got to him in the hospital.”

* * *

“I don’t care if you’re the goddamn Duke of East Wellington, if he wants to see me, I’m gonna damn well see him!”

The colonel struggled against the hands restraining him, muttering obscenities as he was forced back. The doctor he spoke to just  looked at him like something to be pitied.

“--that’s just it, sir. He hasn’t been calling out  _ your _ name.”

“He… what?” William abruptly relented to the hands and was nearly taken to the floor at how much force suddenly pushed on him. “Then who?”

The doctor turned to Mark, who had been watching the exchange with a solemn expression. “You are Mark, correct?”

“Hold on, he-- he called  _ my _ name instead of Will’s?” He didn’t bother hiding his surprise. It wasn’t any big secret who liked who more in their little group. Which made the fact Damien wanted Mark a rather… unnerving surprise.

“Normally, untrained personnel are not allowed in the operating room,” the doctor began, a little bit of desperation creeping into his voice as he continued, “but we are struggling to keep him still enough to administer a sedative. Please, would you follow me?”

Mark gave the doctor a long look, then glanced at William and Celine and nodded. “I’ll let you guys know.”

He gestured for the doctor to lead the way, and followed closely behind, saying nothing. It must have been the adrenaline that quieted him, that fenced all his chaotic thoughts in his brain. He felt like one slip and he wouldn’t be able to stop talking, so he kept his lips tight. 

Even so, it did nothing to calm the storm of anxiety and fear and pessimistic grief brewing in his chest, pulsing in his ears to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Here we are,” the doctor opened a set of doors and allowed Mark through. “Anything you can do would be greatly appreciated.”

Now that they passed through the soundproof doors, it was hard to hear anything other than Damien. Or, more clearly, his screams. He was thrashing, and on the odd moments his yelling wasn’t incoherent, it was Mark’s name, over and over, forced through his throat like it had to be purged.

And there-- at his chest and stomach-- gigantic stains of blood growing darker and wetter by the minute.

“Damien! Damien, stop!” 

Mark was at his side in an instant, abruptly fighting the feeling of cotton in his head as tears pricked his eyes. He reached desperately for one of Damien’s swinging hands and managed to grab it, clasping it in his own. It fell limp, as did the rest of him as Mark stood over him.

“Damien, I’m here, I’m right here, please--”

Slowly, with Mark’s platitudes, Damien began to calm. He laid back on the operating table, panting as if he’d run a mile. Blood soaked his clothes, and their palms made a sick squelching noise when Mark shifted. He just squeezed tighter.

Eventually, Mark’s words trailed off into silence. The doctors bustled around quickly, setting up equipment Damien had displaced in his thrashing panic.

“Mark,” the mayor moaned, everything about him screaming of pain. “Mark, it hurts, it… it--”

“I know, Dames, I know it hurts,” Mark swallowed thickly, praying that the doctors would hurry up and help his friend. He forced a light chuckle, and ignored the terrified warble in it. “You should see how much blood you’re oozing, man, you-- you… Damien, please, just hold on, you won’t feel anything in a second--”

“No-- no,  _ listen to me! _ ” Damien screamed through clenched teeth, blood flying past his lips like spittle. “It hurts, Mark, it  _ will _ hurt, but you have to be strong, you  _ have _ to, you… you can take my body, take… please, take--”

“Sir, please move aside,” the doctors were pushing him away, and Damien was screaming again, but after calming down, he had no more energy to thrash, and Mark was pushed out of the doors with Damien’s keening howls ringing painfully in his ears.

When Damien woke up the next morning in a hospital bed and off of the heavy sedatives, he claimed not to remember anything since before he gave his speech.

But Mark knew better.

* * *

“…Mark?”

Damien’s voice was barely a whisper in the cold, dark kitchen, but it still managed to scare the heebie jeebies out of Mark, who leapt backwards in surprise with a yelp and nearly dropped the jug of milk he had been taking out of the fridge. He groaned exasperatedly at the mayor, who was curled up into a ball on the floor next to the entrance.

“Jesus, Damien, if you’re trying to kill me via jumpscare, at least have the courtesy of letting me know it’s you.”

“…It wouldn’t work,” Damien said, his voice flat. “I tried.”

“Um. What.” Mark carefully set the milk jug down and closed the fridge door, approaching his friend in the low light.

“I don’t hate you,” the mayor insisted softly, as if trying to soften some sort of blow. “It’s just really hard to distinguish between anger and betrayal, sometimes.”

“I-- uh, I don’t think I’m really the one to be…” Mark looked to his left, as if he could mentally signal Celine or William that he needed help. 

But of course, no one would come to his aid, so he kneeled by his friend with a nervous titter. “Well. Uh. What’ve I done to make you mad? Recently, anyway.”

Damien didn’t say anything, and Mark frowned. Through the dark, it was hard to see his face. If he squinted and tilted his head a bit, he could almost see the light spliced into different shades.

“I died tonight,” Damien said, and suddenly Mark could see his eyes-- his clouded gaze-- very clearly. “And I’m not sure who I came back as.”

“You… right. God, I’m not the right person for this,” Mark muttered under his breath, trying to get his thoughts together to help Damien. 

Help his friend. He could do that. Simple. “Hey, listen to me. You didn’t die at that park, and you didn’t die at that hospital. We’re home, in my home. You’re alive, Damien.”

He flinched at the name, and Mark’s internal alarm started beeping. His eyes had the same foggy stare, but now it was directed around the room, as if examining it. ...Oh.

“Damien,” Mark intoned, and the mayor’s attention snapped to him. “Do you know where we are?”

He looked bemused for a moment, then an unidentifiable expression blanketed his face. “Home. In your home.”

“Um, good, I guess. But points off for plagiarism,” Mark swallowed and began to stand, suddenly very aware that this was way out of his pay-grade. 

Actually, Will had mental problems-- well, not like that-- well, kind of like that, but also not-- in any case, he’d be able to handle this much better than Mark. “I--I think I’m going to go get the colonel.”

Damien frowned. From Mark’s angle, he looked almost angry. “You mean the journalist.”

“Sure,” said Mark nervously, and fled to Will’s room. 

By the time he had woken William up and dragged him out of bed (it was surprisingly easy-- one mention of Damien and mental problems, and he was tossing seven layers of blanket aside), Damien had migrated to standing at the sink.

He was staring into the window above the drain, peering into his own reflection and frowning. He caught sight of Mark in the reflection, then looked back at his own face, running a hand across the stubble on his chin. “This is yours now, isn’t it?”

“What is his, Dames?”

Damien whirled around to face the newcomer, and froze at the sight of him. “William.”

“Well, you seem to be able to recognize a familiar face, so that’s good,” the colonel chuckled, and gave Mark’s back a reassuring smack. “Mark here wakes me up at-- what is it, two am?-- to tell me you’ve been having an identity crisis down in the kitchen. Now what’s that about?”

“I was dead,” Damien said cautiously, “and now I’m not.”

“Well, is that all!” William laughed, and Mark shot him a look. “Bully! Then this can all be explained in time for us to get some shut-eye! Y’see, Dames, you might’ve had a rough time after you were shot, but--”

“I didn’t die in the park, or in the hospital,” the mayor cut in, his tone sharp. “I died here, in the kitchen. I stood up too fast, and my stitches pulled too hard. I doubled over and hit my head on the counter. That’s why there’s blood everywhere.”

Mark blanched. “Blood every…?”

“Mark, get the lights,” William commanded, and Mark didn’t waste any time. When he finally flipped them on, he wondered how he stopped the inhuman noise in his throat.

The room wasn’t drenched in blood, but it certainly looked like a murder had taken place. There was red on the counters, on the tile, in the sink, and all down Damien’s face and torso. Mark would have wondered how he hadn’t noticed the smell if not for the fact that it still didn’t smell like anything.

“Is… is that real?” Mark asked, and suddenly felt very much like he’d caught Damien’s crazy.

“I don’t think it is,” Damien said, as if addressing the weather. He swayed on his feet, and the colonel dove forward to catch him as he fell. Once it was obvious he had lost consciousness, William turned to Mark. 

“You said you found him sitting in the kitchen, staring off into space.” Mark nodded fervently, eyes glued to the limp form in Will’s hands. “Right. Call 911. We need to get him to a hospital.”

“A normal one or a psychiatric one?” Mark blurted distantly.

The colonel shot him a glare. “This is not the time, Mark, now go get the goddamn phone.” 

That afternoon, when they got home from the hospital with a tentative diagnosis of PTSD, the kitchen was completely blood-free. 

Celine said she’d never seen it in the first place, denied using the blood-soaked paper towels in the trash can.

But Mark knew better.

* * *

“It’s not PTSD.”

Mark groaned. “You can be the most stubborn little bastard sometimes, you know that? Worse than Will.” 

He handed Damien a box of cereal to place in the cart, and they continued down the aisle of the grocery store.

“I’m stubborn when I know I’m right.”

“Alright, then, Mr. illness guru,” Mark folded his arms, stopping in front of their cart. “If not PTSD, what do you think it could be?”

Damien remained silent for a minute, and gave Mark a long look. Then, cautiously, as if he were afraid of ridicule, he said, “I think it’s Celine.”

“Oh, for… Look, Dames, just because  _ you’re _ a headcase doesn’t mean other people are, too. Yeah, she can be a worrier, but that’s just who she is. It doesn’t mean--”

“That’s not what I mean.” Damien’s voice shifted, and it reminded Mark of the other night in the kitchen so much that he stiffened. “She’s started meddling with things beyond her control.”

“Dames…?” But Damien’s gaze was locked between the thin bars of the shopping cart.

“I… I didn’t think it all was real. You know me, I’m not exactly a skeptic, but--  _ that _ place was not what people usually have in mind for the afterlife. It was cold, and weightless, and… and… ”

“Damien, stop. You’re shaking.”

And suddenly, Mark was at his side, hands hovering just above him, as if he wasn’t sure if he should touch. Damien slowly turned to face his friend, his expression carved into a deep-seated fear, and murmured, “I’ve seen him.”

Mark swallowed, frozen. “Seen who?”

“I didn’t ask his name. But he’s told me things. A lot of things.” His gaze was growing distant, the same fog from the other night descending.

Mark started to get nervous. “Right. Telling you things. What kind of things? Have you been seeing this man when you’re awake? Damien?”

“I’m not crazy!” 

Damien’s trance snapped. He shoved Mark’s hands away, the motion propelling him backwards into the aisle. The shelf shook and a box of gummies toppled. Damien didn’t seem to notice it happened, didn’t seem to mind being cornered against a wall of fruit snacks. 

“I’m being serious, Mark! Something’s not right here.”

“Alright, alright,” Mark held his hands up in surrender, though he didn’t look ready to drop the subject quite yet. 

There was something… a suspicion, egging him on. “What makes you think Celine’s involved?”

Damien shrugged, looking rather like he did know. He carded a quivering hand through his hair. “I don’t know. But she is. I can feel it.”

Mark opened his mouth, then slowly closed it. He took a deep breath and shook the nerves out of his fingertips, forcing a smile.

“Well,” he declared, picking up the dropped gummy box and tossing it into the cart, “No point in debating it in the middle of the grocery store, right?”

Damien didn’t look enthused at dropping the subject, but Mark wasn’t about to let that put him down.

“Now that we’ve barely avoided a panic attack getting cereal, why don’t we head over to the milk section, and we can have ourselves a nice a psychotic break, eh? What d’you say?”

Damien blinked slowly, the last effects of whatever he had worked himself up into fading away. Then, to Mark’s surprise, the mayor-on-leave cracked the first genuine smile Mark had seen in days. 

He whacked Mark on the arm with a quiet, “just forget about it,” and pushed the cart down the aisle with Mark following behind.

But Mark knew better.

* * *

“It’s a cane!” William proclaimed, showcasing the item like a flashy gameshow host. “Y’know, kind of.”

“It looks more like a bent stick,” Mark tossed over his shoulder, dragging the kitchen trash can closer to the group.

They were situated in the bare-bones living room, with only an armchair and a couch to fill the empty space between the walls and the windows. 

William, Celine, and Mark all had places on the couch, while the armchair had been turned to create a circle-- now filled with presents and wrapping paper and, as the colonel presented, a hand carved, wooden cane.

Damien looked as though he was struggling to find an emotion. “It’s… It’s great, Will. Thanks.”

“Yikes. You alright, birthday boy?” Celine comically raised an eyebrow, but it was plain to see the cogs in her head were turning. “Need a break?”

The mayor’s smile was unnaturally tight, and he gripped the cane in his hands until his knuckles went white. “No, I’m fine. Just a little tired, is all.”

William grinned smugly, wagging a finger. “Mmm, what’ve I been telling you kids? Damien shouldn’t sleep alone! He needs someone to be there for him in the nighttime, when the trauma shows its ugly face!”

“You know, Will, you’re really shit at this ‘casually not mention the mental illness’ thing,” Mark chuffed, leaning over to toss the wrapping paper in the trash.

He settled back in his seat next to Celine. “Besides, if you’re so insistent on him having a bed buddy, why don’t you do it? I know you’ve always liked the couch, but you two could  _ share _ the only other bed in the house.”

“Why, that’s a great idea!” William cried, trying and failing to make it seem like he hadn’t already had the idea. “What do you think, Dames? You wanna sleep together?”

“Yeah, Dames,” Mark smirked, “You wanna sleep with Will?”

“C’mon, Mark. Can you really blame the man for wanting to sleep in a normal bed? No matter who’s sleeping there as well,” Damien pointed out, tossing the cane experimentally between his hands to distract from the heat crawling up his neck.

Mark cackled. “Nice to see you’re very open to the notion, Dames! I’m sure the colonel is flattered!”

“Hey, I wouldn’t mind if you had an extra minder,” Celine nudged her brother, with an encouraging huff from Mark.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Damien scoffed at his friends, trying to hide his embarrassed smile. “If it’ll keep you guys off my back, fine.”

As it turned out, that might’ve been one of the worst decisions they made. 

Somewhere around three in the morning, Mark awoke to shouting. Loud shouting. Celine, curled up in the blankets next to him, was dead asleep. That was normal, she was known to sleep through anything-- something Mark had dreaded to acknowledge when daydreaming about possible future crying-baby nights.

Mark shoved the comforter off of his bed and wrenched open his door, finally able to hear the voice clearly. 

William?

“Damien! Damien, stop this! Damien, where are you! Come out now! Dames!” He was somewhere downstairs, but he was yelling loud enough for it to echo through the whole house.

Then, almost too quiet to hear, Mark noticed the other noise down the hall. A quiet noise, like hissing or scratching. He started toward it and swallowed at the sight.

Tucked away in a corner with his hands over his ears and shaking like an overcharged vibrator sat Damien, muttering a litany of unintelligible words to himself. Mark got closer, leaning down and straining to hear.

“It’s not real, he’s not real, he doesn’t know, that’s not my name, that’s not my name,  _ that’s not my _ \--”

“Damien?” Mark reached out to touch him, but the mayor flinched away. 

That was when it-- something in the air, on Damien,  _ something _ \-- suddenly made Mark  _ very _ dizzy, the feeling hitting him like a freight train. “...Woah. Fuck.”

He stood unsteadily and reached out to grab the wall to steady himself, but misjudged, and clawed at the railing of the overhang of the entrance hall instead. For a split second he panicked, but then--

“ _ Not yet _ ,” he heard, and from the edge of his hearing, a high ringing noise broke through the air, loud and high enough to rattle his skull. For a brief moment, he felt like he was going to puke-- 

But then the ringing subsided, his stomach settled, and suddenly Damien was standing over him, offering him a hand.

Mark blinked at it for a moment then took it, hefting himself up and noting that Damien had somehow retrieved his cane. They looked at each other for a minute, until again--

“Damien! Where are you?”

“I’ll take care of him,” Mark said before he had thought it, then equally as absentmindedly added, “I’ll meet you in your room.”

The mayor swallowed visibly, glanced down at the drop Mark almost fell down, and nodded. He took off to his room, anxiety prominent in the crunch of his shoulders as he moved.

Mark took a deep breath and padded downstairs to deal with the colonel. The second floor was only fifteen feet up-- few feet more than twice his height. If Damien hadn’t been there… 

William didn’t look like his normal self. He looked a word away from hysterical laughter, and immediately Mark was on edge. Maybe… Maybe Damien had been right. Something was going on here… 

Other than his skittish trembling and nervous energy, the colonel was surprisingly compliant with Mark, nodding hazily and agreeing to stay out of the room until Mark and Damien were finished talking. It wasn’t until William turned to go that Mark caught his bewildered expression and eerily familiar blank stare.

The fog had descended.

Mark practically ran back to Damien’s room, slamming and locking the door behind him. 

Damien sat on a small, wooden chair in the corner, facing away from the mirror it was meant to complement. He flinched with each loud noise, fingers running along his cane and eyes glued to the aged wood. 

“Alright, talk to me. Seriously, and none of that spacing-out, vague-ass bullshit you do when we usually get on this topic.”

The mayor swallowed audibly, his reply unnaturally quiet compared to the yelling-fest a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t have done that. He could’ve gotten someone hurt.”

“…Sure. Correct me if I’m wrong, but  _ William _ wasn’t the one freaking me out ‘till I almost jumped a twenty foot drop.” 

Damien flinched at the colonel’s name, his heel bouncing up at down against the carpet as he glanced away. Mark sighed, stepping closer to his friend. “What was it Will did to get you so riled up?”

“Stop saying his name!” Damien snapped, his hands fluttering erratically against his cane. 

Trailing Mark’s pitying gaze, the mayor gave an incoherent groan and tossed the item to the ground, getting to his feet and limping past Mark to pace at the foot of the bed.

Mark whirled to face his friend, incensed and sick of bottling it up. “For god’s sake, would you stop your temper tantrum and  _ explain _ something for once! We’re worried about you, Damien! I don’t know what the hell you’re so concerned with that you’ve stopped caring, but we’re here, right here and now! And we have  _ no idea _ what’s going on with you!”

“Because you won’t listen!” Damien shouted back at equal temperament, “Or worse, you’ll think I’m just a  _ nut case _ , just like the rest of them!”

Mark swallowed his retort, momentarily stunned into silence. He took a deep breath, licked his lips, and pulled up the chair Damien had sat in to take it for himself. “Fine. Fine. I’ll listen. I won’t guarantee I’ll believe, but-- I’ll. Keep an open mind.”

Damien stopped pacing, his mind obviously working at above average speeds to try to compensate for the sudden turn in the conversation. Then, encouragingly, Damien limped over to the edge of his bed and gave Mark an expectant look.

Mark sighed, trying to exhale all of his frustration to keep a calm mind. They were both trying. So… Start small. Start easy. 

“What happened tonight?”

Damien nodded as if expecting this, and his gaze drew to the cane on the floor. “I… It wasn’t really his fault. I was dreaming, and when I woke up, I… I don’t know, I didn’t expect him to be there. I panicked.”

“You… panicked.” Mark searched for more words, trying to keep himself focused. “You were muttering something in your little curled up ball in the corner. Like you didn’t know what was real.”

Damien shuffled uncomfortably. This time his foot kicked near the cane, and his fingers twitched forward. “Maybe I didn’t. If I told you all of it, you wouldn’t believe me.”

Mark also glanced at the cane, and tried and failed to suppress his temper. “I’m here, making an effort, Damien. It’s harder to listen if you keep doing that. I-- I just want to know what’s happening to you.”

There was a long stretch of silence, where Mark thought Damien had just given up. He was about to storm out of the room when the mayor turned his head away and mumbled something.

Mark shoved down his frustration. “What was that?”

“There’s a man, in my dreams,” Damien repeated, his voice a whisper. He was scared.

This was starting to sound familiar. Mark frowned, trying to remember. “Right. In the supermarket, you told me. He… he tells you what to do.”

“He doesn’t tell me what to do,” Damien cut in, scandalized. At least he was starting to sound more like himself.

“Well then?” Mark asked, when his friend didn’t continue.

“He… Sometimes I don’t feel like myself. And-- and when I don’t, I… I feel like him.”

Mark’s frown deepened, his eyebrows drawing together. “You’re not making much sense here, man. You, what, you’re saying you  _ become _ this man, or something?”

“No.” Damien fixed his gaze back to the cane on the floor, looking almost longingly at it. “I… I kind of-- it’s like I  _ know _ how he would react to certain things, and… and those things become the first thing I think.”

Mark shook his head. “So you  _ think _ you’re this person?”

“Sort of. It’s complicated.”

“This…” Mark trailed off, almost wishing his anger would return to swamp the sudden, overwhelming feeling of dread. He continued stronger, “This isn’t complicated, Damien, this is… this is way past-- PTSD, or whatever. We-- we need to get you to a shrink,  _ now _ \--”

“No!” Damien shot up from the bed, arms outstretched as if to stop Mark from a distance. “Please, just-- just hear me out! It-- It’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise!”

Mark pinned his friend with a sharp look, and against his every constitution, gestured for Damien to continue. 

The mayor breathed a sigh of relief and sat back onto the bed sheets. “I’m… This sort of thing doesn’t happen often. Only when my mind’s not focused, like… like--”

“Dissociating?” Mark finished dryly.

“--daydreaming,” Damien insisted desperately, adding, “Really, it’s just when I’m not focused! Like-- like right before I fall asleep, or… or just as I wake up.”

Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers in front of his face. “Like tonight.”

Damien nodded. “Like tonight. I woke up, thinking like  _ him _ , but I-- he--  _ we _ recognized Will. Both of us. He knew him. And-- and I think it may have affected Will, too, because he-- he knew exactly what to say to… I don’t know, set  _ him _ off?”

Mark thought back to William’s eyes, to the foggy hysterics in them. Then he thought about Damien, cradled into a ball, trying to block out Will’s voice.

“Alright,” he relented, “So tonight Will set you off. How?”

Damien’s head snapped up in surprise. “How… how did he set me off?”

Mark nodded, and Damien’s hand immediately flew to the back of his neck, and he frowned as if trying to remember.

“I, uh, I guess it started with the dream I had. William was there. He had a gun. He… he shot me. He pushed me through the railing, like-- like the way you almost fell. Except he didn’t catch me. I hit the ground, hard. Then… I remember a mirror. A cracked mirror. And-- and a cane. A wooden cane.”

Both of their gazes went to the wooden cane on the bedroom carpet. Mark quirked an eyebrow. “…That one?” 

“No. It was… smoother, nicer.” The mayor cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Familiar.”

“…Right. Go on.”

“I… well, then I woke up. And-- you can imagine what kind of response my brain got from William being there next to me, just after he… And--and in the dark, the cane looked the same. I freaked. By the time I made it out of the room, it felt like I was back in my dream again, and Will… Will was calling for me. But I wasn’t there. I wasn’t… me.”

Mark bit his lower lip, trying to comprehend Damien’s story all at once. At face-value, it just seemed like a bad dream gone wrong, something the doctors had told them to expect with this kind of thing. But still… there was something else, he was certain.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Mark asked bluntly, but Damien didn’t seem surprised by the question. Instead, he stared at Mark for a long moment.

Then he said, “You have to swear to me you won’t take me to a hospital or a psych ward, or even William or Celine.”

Mark felt something in his chest, the same turmoil he had felt in that emergency room when Damien was shot, rear back. With his chest tight and hoping to god he was lying, he said, “I swear.”

Damien nodded, then finally stood and retrieved his new cane. He walked over to the door, put one hand on the doorknob, and took a deep breath.

“The man in my dreams is real. And he’s told me-- he’s coming for me. He’s going to steal me away in the night. And there’s nothing your or I or William or Celine can do about it. Tonight… tonight I had a bad dream, yes. I thought tonight was the night he would come for me. But it wasn’t. I’ve still got time-- borrowed time, but time nonetheless.”

Mark stood, ready to cut in to his speech, but Damien stopped him with a raised hand. He looked close to tears, but smiled nonetheless.

“So… just try to let me have my last few days in the same happiness we had our first few, alright? Can-- can you do that, for me?”

Mark swallowed. “Damien… ”

“Please, can you just do that for me?” 

Damien was crying now. Begging. And whether or not he was indulging in some sort of deeper psychosis or-- damn the notion, if this was  _ real _ \-- Mark couldn’t very well refuse.

“Sure, Dames,” he said, trying to speak around how tight his throat had suddenly become. “I’ll keep us happy.”

Damien’s face erupted into a relieved smile, and he nodded wordlessly his thanks. Then he twisted the doorknob and turned away, wiping the tears from his eyes with a stray hand as he limped down the hall, presumably to find the colonel.

Mark sat for a few long minutes in Damien’s room, trying to suppress the hot feeling in his chest that was prompting tears at the edges of his vision. He furiously swiped at his eyes, cruelly wondering if it was any use to not cry. His friend, one of his best friends, was… was…

Dammit, he couldn’t even think it. Thinking it would make it real. Thinking it would make him… god, what was he supposed to do now? Continue life as if everything was normal? As if his friend hadn’t just told him how balls-to-the-walls  _ insane _ he was?

…What was he supposed to tell William?  _ Celine _ ? They didn’t… they didn’t know. And with how much Damien had kept this under wraps, since the failed assassination on his life only a few weeks prior… Mark wouldn’t doubt if Damien could write off his word as insane or lies.

God, the irony. A man notoriously composed and prepared for every situation, applying the same abnormal compartmentalization to his own mental illness, to the point where speaking about it to other people was practically impossible if Mark didn’t want to sully his own supposed sanity.

So was that it, then? The protector falls ill, and is abandoned by his friends? Mark needed to help him, needed to get him help--

But that wasn’t what Damien wanted. Scratch that, it wasn’t what Damien  _ needed _ . All of them knew he’d had this protective complex since he was little-- something born from Celine’s distant care and always looking up to the most reckless pair of boys in the whole country. But it translated with his stubbornness as he grew up.

Now, as an adult, Damien wouldn’t accept help from other people unless absolutely necessary. He would do everything in his power to refuse Mark’s help, no matter what he did. Which meant Mark had to make him realize, on his own, that he needed professional help.

And, in the meantime, would it really hurt to honor the guy’s request?

With this resolution in mind, Mark drifted back to his own bed, where Celine was still curled up, now hogging most of the blanket. The actor chuckled softly and tugged on the blanket, settling for a small corner of the sheet when Celine turned over.

But even then, Mark didn’t sleep. Instead, he lied awake, staring at his ceiling for hours as his thoughts turned him in dizzying circles-- until one dangerous, terrible thought occurred to him.

_“Celine. She’s_ _started meddling with things beyond her control.”_

Mark glanced over at his wife, and felt something in his gut twist.

_ “She is involved. I can feel it.” _

He swallowed something thick in his throat and turned his gaze back to the ceiling. There was nothing going on. It was stupid, a result of a friend’s growing madness. Nothing to be worried about. 

The niggle in the back of his mind screaming bloody murder was just stray paranoia, the same line of madness Damien was suffering from.

But Mark knew better.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

In retrospect, he really should’ve expected that the colonel would barrel into a conversation without so much as a hello before Mark had even fully opened his front door.

“We’re worried about you, Mark.”

The colonel, truth be told, looked even worse than Mark— which was not easy to pull off. It had only been a week since Damien’s disappearance, yet Will seemed to carry extra years on his shoulders and his face. 

The city, sent into a minor panic at the news of their mayor’s disappearance, had hired his sickness replacement full time. Or, at least until the mayor reappeared— as per Will’s…  _ persistent _ demands. 

Will, of course, protested the decision at any moment possible, and spent every other moment putting up missing posters and hiring search parties with Mark’s money.

Which was. Fine. It wasn't like Mark didn't want to find him.

It was just that it was Damien’s voice in his head telling him he couldn't be found.

The night Mark had spilled the beans on everything he knew about Damien’s condition, Will had packed up all of his things and cut some sort of deal to live in Damien’s house until the mayor had been found. 

With him gone as well, Mark’s mansion just grew staler and colder.

The wistful part of Mark that still clung to the delusion of hope liked to wonder if the atmosphere would be the same if Will and Damien had moved out together.

Recently, Mark had taken to waterboarding that part of him with whatever kind of liquor he could get in arms reach.

And yet, sleepless nights, rampant paranoia, and a growling dependency on alcohol aside, Mark wasn't doing nearly as badly as Will was. Which, for some reason, he found infuriating.

Will must have noticed just how caught up Mark had been in his thoughts, as his face briefly imitated that of a disgruntled housewife.

“Nice to see you as well, Will. And hey, I appreciate the concern, but next time just drop me off a bottle of Pinot and leave me alone, m‘kay buddy?”

Will’s gaze drew to the glass of scotch in Mark’s hand, scowling. Sure, it was nine in the morning, but it really pissed Will off and at the moment Mark found that very satisfying. 

He downed his glass, beckoned Will inside with a wave of his arm, and offered, “I could fix you something, if you're thirsty.”

Will ignored the offer, but stepped inside nevertheless, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He glanced up the staircase, then followed Mark into the kitchen. “Where’s Celine?”

“Asleep,” Mark said, his tone choppy and unaffected as he lazily refilled his glass. The bottle was almost up. He may need to take another trip down to the cellar pretty soon. “She's taking it rough.”

“I can't imagine,” Will murmured gently.

Mark abruptly glared at him, swirling the ice in his drink. “No. You can't.”

Will deflated visibly, swiping a hand over his face. “Look. Dam—” he cut himself off, throat working. “He’s our best friend, and Celine’s brother. We’re just— I… What I’m trying to say is— look, we can't lose you, too. Please, Mark.”

“Yeah,” Mark chuffed, suddenly very interested in exploring his glass, “Whatever you need, big guy.”

“For god’s sake!” The colonel yelled, slamming his hand on the kitchen counter, trying desperately to get Mark’s attention. Too desperately. “I owe you my life, dammit, and I'll be damned if I'm just going to watch you throw yours away!”

Mark’s lips tightened, then curled into a smile. “Who's throwing anything away?” He chuckled lowly, took another swig, and threw his arms out eagle spread and  _ laughed _ , the spluttering sound cold and hollow and grating. “I'm having the time of my life!”

Will took a deep breath, several expressions passing his face at once. He opened his mouth, and then resolutely shut it. Then he shook his head and, without a word, walked out of the kitchen and straight out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Mark pulled his arms back down and silently considered the ice in his glass.

Idiot. What had he expected that to solve?

Mark snagged the bottle from the kitchen counter and began to trudge up to Damien’s old room, leaving the glass behind.

The colonel would be damned before he saw Mark throw his life away, would he?

Mark would be damned before he let anyone know he drowned himself in liquor to blot out Damien’s voice.

* * *

“I don't know. I know it's not real, that it's just paranoia.” Mark folded his arms, gazing out of the nearby window as if he was alone with his thoughts. “But still, after everything…”

It was a quiet, large room they sat in. Warped oak held up an ornamented roof, and various items of personal and professional variance speckled the room, presumably to try and fill the gigantic empty space. 

It felt distant, and cold. Mark kind of liked it.

“What, exactly, do you hear, that makes you think it's him?” The woman sitting across from him was tall, pale, and her face sunken.

Mark turned from the window and faced her, exhaustion painting his face sallow. “Because sometimes… sometimes I can hear him scream.”

Something about the expression on her face at that comment lingered after the session was over. That sort of buried, primal fear that mixes itself up into a twisted sympathy. 

He didn’t schedule another session and declined the several referrals he was offered, instead walking out into the chilly night, pulling the flaps of his coat tight, and vowing to keep himself at home rather than put himself on the world.

He should've known better. He’d always preferred liquor over shrinks anyways.

* * *

_ “...Mark. Mark. Mar—” _

“Ungh, I get it, shut up already.” Mark draped a hand over his eyes, frowning when his other hand felt the the rough texture he was laying on. Was he on the floor?

Oh, right. The events of last night came back to him in a foggy daze. He was drunk, Celine was up, crying… packing. Again.

He almost wished she would keep her nerve and move out already. It wasn’t like any of them weren’t expecting it at this point. 

But then, was he really any better? He had spent the night alone in Damien’s room. Again.

“Shit,” he groaned, the sharp pounding of a hangover returning with his memory. “This is so fucked.”

Slowly, he sat up, propped up by a hand while the other pressed at his temples. Stars blinked at him behind his eyelids, and he moaned.

“Jesus, that hurts like hell,” he muttered bitterly to— himself? What the fuck ever— “Don't suppose you could've at least told me to drink a glass of water before bed?”

_ “… Mark? I-I can't see. I can't see—!” _

“Then open your eyes, idiot.”

Getting up and staying up proved to be a bit of a challenge, but it wasn't anything Mark wasn't used to, even before he started passing out in Damien’s room. 

He wrenched open the door and— there stood Celine. 

Still and pale as a ghost, her gaze was glassy and unfocused. Prime jumpscare material, if not that it had become their own kind of fucked up routine. He gets Damien’s room at night, and passes it over to Celine during the day.

Some stray strand of lunacy tickled a giggle out of him.  _ Mom says it’s my turn on the destructive coping mechanism! _

“Morning,” Mark grinned stiffly, unable to help himself. She didn’t give him a reaction— but then, he hadn’t really been expecting one.

He stepped to the side, and Celine dutifully ghosted inside the room and sat by the bed and stared at the opposite wall.

She did that a lot now, just staring. He couldn't really blame her, though. When he wasn't drunk or hungover or passed out, he caught himself doing the same thing.

For a brief moment, it dawned on him just how pathetic their lives had become. Drifting through their days in a blind haze like the undead, numbing themselves in any way they could get their hands on.

The worst part was, it wasn’t even the fact that Damien was  _ gone _ that spawned their deadened, depressive behaviors. Hell, in more normal circumstances, they hardly saw the mayor for months at a time— until his next cocktail party happened to coincide with them.

No, it was the fact that he  _ wasn’t  _ at a cocktail party, or visiting the hospitals in town, or shutting himself in his office to do meaningless paperwork.

And it was the fact that they  _ knew _ that he wasn’t. And that tomorrow would be the same. 

They couldn’t just pretend, because each of them knew Damien’s disappearance wasn’t  _ normal _ . People don’t just disappear like that.

Nor do they come back as a voice in one’s head.

_ “Mark, I know you're there… please… please, I can't do this anymore…” _

“Then don't,” Mark grumbled to the empty air, then swung the door closed and began stumbling downstairs to the kitchen. When he finally arrived at the liquor cabinet, he peered inside and tsked. “No wine, no scotch. Just brandy. What do you think, Dames? Should we take a trip to the cellar?”

Without waiting for a response, he padded down the stairs into the cellar and examined his wide array of drinks.

“Alright, Dames, if you can hear me, pick a year,” he chuckled, the sound oddly heavy in the cellar’s muffled silence as he picked out a wine. Considering his choice, he turned the bottle and inspected the year.

_ “I told you once, that the afterlife is cold.” _

Mark startled, fumbling his grip and sending the bottle crashing to the floor where it shattered. He groaned, pushing his palms into his eyes.

“Fuck, didn't we have a talk about jump scares some time ago?”

_ “It's not that cold anymore. I suppose… you get used to it.” _

Mark pulled his hands down his face and blinked at the mess on the floor. There was a broom just upstairs. He should go up and get it.

_ “There is one thing I still don't really understand, though.” _

Mark swallowed. He should toss a careless response into the open air. He should ignore him. He should resist heat pressing behind his eyes, because Damien… Damien was… 

_ “If all this is is living through things that never happened, why can I still hear that damned scratching?” _

“Fuck,” Mark shook his head, feeling his limbs start to tremble. He kneeled on the broken glass and spilled wine and tried to swallow back the urge to sob.

_ “Why do I still hear your voice, how come I just know you're here?” _

Mark finally collapsed, tears streaming down his face as he buried it in his hands. 

“I hear it too, Dames,” he cried in the silence, “I can hear you.”

There was no response.

* * *

_ “…I think I might be here to torture you.” _

Mark clenched his teeth, his right palm— shaking, always  _ shaking _ — beating against his temple. “Not the time, Damien.”

“And you just let us think he was—!”

“He  _ is _ dead!” Mark yelled over her, the fingers of his left hand digging beads of blood from the side of his face. His palm beat harder on his head and his socks slid on the wooden floorboards as he pressed himself farther back into the corner. “He is, I know he is, he ke _ eps fucking telling me he is! _ ”

“Celine…”

“Y-you  _ let _ me think  _ I had— _ ”

_ “Why else would they let me hear your voice? So I know if I’m doing it right, if I’m hurting you… right?” _

“Celine, please! He’s detoxing, he doesn’t know what’s real—”

“No,  _ you _ don’t know, Will—!”

Mark couldn’t help the savage laugh that rattled his chest, startling the other two into a cautious silence.

“Careful, Celine,” he warned, clicking his tongue and levelling with her fiery gaze. “Do you  _ really _ want little ol’ Wilford here to know what you did?”

“Celine, please, let’s go—”

“And if he did?” Celine snapped back, stepping closer to Mark’s huddled form. Will’s white knuckled grip on her arm was the only thing keeping her back. “It wouldn’t change anything! It wouldn’t bring him back!”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Mark giggled, pitching his head back onto the wall with a harsh crack. “But it  _ would _ destroy the only relationship you have left. Do I smell you cooking up some familiar self-destructive tendencies, wifey-poo?”

“Leave her alone,” Will growled, at the same time Damien piped up, _ “I-I’m sorry, Mark. They won’t let me leave you alone.” _

“It’s my fault Damien’s gone,” Celine seethed through clenched teeth. Her watering eyes were fixed on Mark, but it was obvious who her apprehension was pointed towards. “And you let me think I  _ killed him _ .”

The expanding feeling in Mark’s chest popped like an over-inflated balloon. He was almost certain his form visibly deflated, just by their expressions, as he fell lax against the wall.

“Huh. The truth, for once?” His voice became bitter and tired as he acknowledged the throbbing in his head. He glanced briefly at the colonel. “What influence he must have over you.”

“Celine,” Will tugged on her arm, ignoring Mark. “Whatever you think you did, I don’t need to know. Come on. I don’t want to give him—”

“I’d been using his blood,” Celine ground out past her tears. 

Will’s grip turned vice-like, and likewise something constricted in Mark’s head, slamming on the walls of his skull. Reality blinked out, and for a moment Mark couldn’t hear or see or feel anything— when he came out of it, Celine was still talking, as though neither of them had noticed.

“Blood relatives have the strongest connection, I… I had to find out what was wrong with this house. I  _ had _ to. My experiments weren’t supposed to soak into the place, to make it so dark, so powerful…”

Will pulled harder on her arm, but she didn’t budge. Mark blinked and got the fleeting impression of a dark office and a man in pink suspenders. His skull throbbed again and it was gone.

“I didn’t know it was sentient,” she pleaded to no one in particular, her constitution visibly fading. “I swear, I didn’t. I didn’t know it could— it would  _ possess _ him—”

“It— what?” Will’s grip on her arm loosened, and she pulled away from him sharply. “You-you’re saying he— he was  _ possessed _ ?!”

_ “Will knows.” _

“Will what?” Mark blurted out, interrupting the two in front of him. “...Dames?”

Will and Celine paid him no mind, their voices fading into the background as Mark tuned into Damien’s ethereal, echoing voice.

_ “Of course… hide and seek, when we were younger— the night his father died, and he disappeared— I… Jesus Christ, I couldn’t find him, after the party, after you…! I could never find him anywhere— oh my god, he knows.” _

“He knows  _ what _ , Damien!” yelled Mark in frustration— pulling the attention of the room to him.

In the sudden silence, the pieces clicked together. 

_ “All this time, he-- he must have been attuned to it-- he must’ve suspected--” _

Mark breathed a soft, “Oh,” and locked eyes with the colonel.

Slowly, he began to rise, using the wall as support, completely oblivious to the line of blood that followed his head up the wallpaper. Hysterical laughter suddenly struck at his chest, but his righteously-fueled anger was enough to douse it.

“You,” Mark hissed, his joints locking as he shivered with rage. “You  _ knew _ , didn’t you? His nightmares, his episodes… you could  _ feel _ it, couldn’t you?”

“...Mark, what the hell are you talking about? Is Damien here, can you hear—”

“I never gave it a second thought,” Mark hacked out a ragged laugh, a pain at the nape of his neck forcing his head to cock sideways. “The two men  _ fucking _ behind the sister’s back-- of course you would be the one to comfort him… but that wasn’t it, was it?”

“It didn’t mean anything,” the colonel spat, glaring at Mark. They all froze for a brief moment—

“Holy shit,” Mark breathed, startled out of his stupor, “You  _ actually fucked _ ?!” 

Then what Will had actually said sunk in and— and he didn’t look like he was lying at all— and something about that struck Mark the wrong way.

“Haha— oh, Jesus  _ Christ _ — do you hear that, Damien?” Mark cried to his ceiling, the abrupt motion flashing the whole world white with pain, “Didn’t mean a  _ fucking _ thing! Ha-haha—How about that!”

“He… he  _ felt _ like it, like the house. But-- it didn’t have anything to do with it, it couldn’t have.  _ It didn’t mean anything! _ ” Will exploded, face red and hands shaking. “I-I couldn’t have…”

“You don’t need to elaborate, you bastard, we’ve got your  _ point _ ,” Mark snarled, but Celine cut him off—

“That’s not what he means, asshole!” She panted, draping a trembling hand over her eyes and wiping away the moisture there. Softer, she continued, “God, Will. You should’ve just told one of us.”

“And said what!” Celine may have taken it down to a two, but William was still at a blaring thirteen. His head swiveled from Mark to Celine, making Mark dizzy. “‘By the way, when our mentally ill mayor friend has episodes, he just happens to  _ feel _ like when the house goes apeshit and rooms start shifting and anything you do doesn’t quite stick in reality—‘“

Mark very suddenly stifled a giggle at the sudden image of Will wandering around a haunted mansion like a dejected child at Walmart who’d lost their parent. Will slowly turned to him.

“Did—“ Mark hiccuped, smothering a laugh with a shaking hand, “Sorry, just— d-did you ever get lost?”

“...What?” said Will. “Did I ever...Yeah,” he answered bemusedly, his anger paving way for Mark’s contagious hysterics. “Yeah, I— ha, you bet your ass I did, of course!”

The colonel proceeded to fall into a bout of laughter— and it was then that it occurred to Mark— how long had the colonel been keeping that secret for? 

How many times had they told spooky stories of haunted mansions as kids, or had strange things happen  _ ever  _ that Will hadn’t spoken up, or even hinted about it? After all, knowing Will… he had probably wanted to. 

Knowing Mark— he never would’ve let the kid hear the end of it.

The colonel’s relieved chuckling reached a crescendo at about the same time that Mark’s laughter went stale and dried up.

Damien-- the same man that schemed his way to mayor--  _ actually screwing _ their best friend, Celine with—  _ fucking _ —  _ witchcraft  _ or  _ whatever the hell _ she's been doing for God knows how long, and now—  _ this _ ?

How many things had his friends hidden from him?

More importantly, why did he agree it was probably justified to keep them all secret from him?

Celine didn’t join in their frenetic laughter, instead smothering all outward expression of emotion and making her way over to the liquor cabinet, where she retrieved a bottle and then returned, distant, to sit at Will’s feet.

Mark slid back down the wall and felt his own emotions begin to retreat inside of him. His eyes flickered to Celine. They really were just too alike, in all the wrong ways.

Will didn’t seem perturbed by the sudden heavy change in atmosphere and calmly sat down behind Celine, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

“I got lost lots of times,” he said after a moment, and Celine’s free hand slowly crept up to hold his. “Didn’t really get any semblance of control over it until sometime in our twenties.”

Mark frowned. “Then what about when we were younger? Hide and seek?”

“How did you...” Will paused, then shook his head. “There was a reason I never wanted to be It. Every time we would play, I’d disappear, regardless if I wanted to or not. I was a champion hider, not a champion seeker, if you remember.”

“I remember you bailing out on us whenever you were It,” Mark nodded absently, beginning to be unnerved by the abrupt radio silence from Damien. All there was now in his head was straight pain. “We all thought you had just gone off to mope about it.”

They sat for a moment in stale silence. Mark coughed. “So you two…”

“Got an apartment at the edge of town almost a month ago,” Will supplied weakly. “Figured we’d keep Damien’s place as... intact as possible.”

Mark repressed a snort. Yeah,  _ that _ was why they hadn’t moved in like two lovebirds in a new nest.

“And the uh… interim mayor?”

“Fine,” Will said, and that was that. Mark was about to attempt another awkward conversation when Celine jumped in.

“Damien…” She began in a somber whisper, her voice painfully hoarse. “We’re not getting him back, are we?”

Mark sighed, then shrugged apathetically, closing his eyes and resting his head against the wall. “I don’t know where he is.” He opened his left eye to stare at Will. “Unless you think you could like… bloodhound him.”

Will looked at him blankly. He turned to Celine, who was staring oddly at Mark.

“He means find him, by…  _ feeling _ , or whatever you called it.” She translated slowly, as if testing out the idea on her tongue. 

Will swallowed. “I don’t know, I… it’s more intuition than something I can control.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” decided Mark as he clapped his hands together. He stood as abruptly as he felt was safe to keep reality in place. And then gestured for the other two to rise as well. “Get up. Let’s go.”

“...What?” said Will, blindly rising to his feet.

Celine, on the other hand, stayed planted on the ground. “What do you expect is going to happen, Mark? He just walks around and  _ happens _ to find him? I’ve tried every spell in every book— he’s not going to just stumble onto him.”

“Surely not  _ every _ book,” was all Mark said before he pointed at Celine’s bottle. “Ooh, think you’d need to be drunk for it to work? I mean, no one relies on intuition more than a fella inebriated, am I right?”

“Shut up, Mark,” Celine scoffed, glaring at him for a long moment. Then, with a deep sigh, she reluctantly got to her feet— with Will’s help.

Mark cocked his head at the motion, pursing his lips and addressing his separated spouse. “So, ah. You knew too, eh? Then why were any of us hiding it?”

“Because, idiot, that’s the polite thing to do when you’re having an affair with a man screwing your brother,” said Celine with a pointed glare. “You keep your mouth shut.” 

She turned to a beet-red William and put her hands on her hips. “So? Lead the way.”

“Um,” said William. He didn’t move.

“Y’know, ‘lead the way’ generally means ‘go’,” Mark pointed out after a long moment.

“Shut up, let him focus if he needs to,” Celine tsked, though she still looked extremely skeptical. 

Will looked caught between trying to shoot her a grateful look and burying his face in his hands.

“I can do this,” he muttered instead, and shut his eyes and clenched his fists. And still didn’t move.

“I swear to god, if you start ‘Ohm’ing, I’m going to break old Jack Daniels over your head,” Mark groaned, stepping up to the bewildered colonel and shoving him in the direction of the stairs. “ _ Go _ , you big loaf, we’ll be on the lookout for any spooky shit.”

Will swallowed again, then nodded abashedly and started walking. As Celine and Mark trailed after, Mark received a smack on the back of the head and a hushed, “This is  _ imbecilic _ .” 

Mark shrugged, rubbing his head and wincing at the spike of his headache. 

Huh. And where had Damien’s disembodied voice gone, anyway? Astral bathroom break?

Mark and Celine hung back a bit to give William space as he began meandering through the halls, taking abrupt and arbitrary turns that seemed to lead them in circles. Mark didn’t seem to mind, though Celine’s jaw locked tighter and tighter with each corner they turned.

“So…” Mark muttered awkwardly in the meantime, “...how, uh. How’re you holding up?”

Celine’s expression flickered oddly, her jaw unclenching slightly. She kept her eyes forward and said levelly, “Fine.”

Mark slowly nodded, watching her carefully. She held her head a little higher and added, “Better.”

“Good,” Mark said quickly, and he was pretty proud that it didn’t come out warbly or choked like he had expected. “I’m still awful,” Mark continued because Celine didn’t. “But then— I suppose you knew that.”

For the first time in a long time, he saw her hide a smirk. “The broken bottles covering the floor of the entryway kinda gave it away, jackass. Were you trying to keep us away?”

That wasn’t supposed to be taken as heavy as Mark considered it— but then again, maybe it was. Either way, he thought about it for a long moment.

“I was. Mad,” he said evenly, swallowing the same, familiar hurt that always dragged him back to the cellar. Then he chuckled bitterly: “In both senses of the word, I guess.”

Celine hummed quietly, not replying. Though she didn’t look as averse to walking next to him as she had before, nor did her patience seem so on-the-fritz.

Then Mark’s head gave a sickening jolt, and he very quickly decided that silence makes the pain worse.

“So then,” he blurted out, “how’d you get Damien’s blood for all your ‘experiments’?”

Celine’s head whipped around to glare at him— but her gaze kept flickering anxiously to William’s back. “...There are spells that can transport one’s blood without breaking skin.”

Mark stared at her incredulously. “Okay, putting aside the fact that you basically just alluded to the fact that you’re some kind of  _ witch _ ,” he began, a nervous energy leaking into his expression, “you didn’t think there was some sort of ethical dilemma, taking blood from a guy trying to recover from a gunshot wound?”

“No one said I took the blood  _ after _ he got shot,” she retorted, the heat rising to her face making her look almost comical. “And I’m not a witch. I…  _ dabble _ in dark arts.”

“Oh,” Mark huffed, nodding sagely. “So you’re an  _ evil _ witch.”

“I’m not a witch!” she groaned, startling Will out of whatever fervor he had settled into. She murmured a hasty apology and then sent Mark a poisonous glance. 

When the coast was clear again to speak, she growled, “You don’t think Will can find him, do you? You just wanted to have a cute little chat to know if I was some sort of  _ witch _ or not!”

“That’s not fair,” Mark hastily pointed out, spluttering. “I-I needed to stretch too— it was bad for my knees, locking them up in that corner like that.”

If Mark thought Celine was angry at him for not telling him about little devil Damien on his shoulder, she was  _ livid _ now.

“ _ You— _ “

“This isn’t working!” William suddenly exploded, turning on Mark. “God— useless! We’re not going to find Damien like this— we’re better off scouting the town again, putting up posters—“

“More than you already have?” Mark noted savagely, slightly miffed that they didn’t have faith in his plan. “Avoiding the obvious isn’t going to help, not now, not ever. You can’t keep pretending that Damien’s just going to appear again alright like nothing happened.”

“As if that would be any crazier than what’s happening now?” The colonel spat back, volume rising in time with the beating inside Mark’s skull. “Besides, you’re one to talk, Mr. I Have Our Missing Friend In My Head But No One Needs To Know—“

“Hey, don’t talk to me about keeping secrets, shithead, you’ve _actually_ been _fucking_ _Damien—_ “

“Shut up, both of you!” Celine yelled over the two of them, holding her hands out on their chests as if to keep them from going at each other's’ throats. “Do you hear that?”

It was like a switch flipped in Mark’s brain. That noise in Mark’s head— it wasn’t beating he was hearing— 

It was that damned scratching. Again. But where—?

“Ah! Right, then! No secrets, eh?” Will snapped suddenly, grabbing the handle of the closet door beside them. “Then allow me to introduce to you  _ my _ fucked up world.”

And with a savage wrench, he opened the door.

* * *

 


End file.
